


Memorium in Gold

by Nobodyhasblindedme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Based on RP, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marco and Jean's relationship in this does not start out a healthy or good one ok, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, butured mess of feudal and Victorian eras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nobodyhasblindedme/pseuds/Nobodyhasblindedme
Summary: Demons have always been a dragon's master. The very first were said to be the Prince of Darkness's own servants, twisted and mutilated until they could withstand the hottest pits in Hell. Marco doesn't know whether such stories as old as those hold any grain of truth, and if they do, he's not sure he wants to know. When you're the personal slave to a young demon prince, however, you learn that some truths are worth their weight in gold.





	1. No Such Thing as Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! So, this entire story is based on an ongoing RP between me and chubtrashgoddess (bringobaggins) on tumblr - enough for the next few chapters has already been written and converting them into chapter form should go fairly quickly. As for the original characters, they don't show up much past the second chapter, and mostly consist of Marco's family anyway. Please hang in there! It gets more exciting. Thank you!!

The room stank of smoke and bodies, humid and too hot even for their kind. Too many people in one place, and the place itself too small. It had always been so, though. Marco knew from his mother and father, and their parents. 

Marco tries not to wince as sweat rolls down his brow into his eye, turning the simple ache from where the Foreman had decked him for his little 'stunt' that day, turning into stinging with the salt. It was already beginning to swell shut. Marco tenderly feels around the area, mindful of his claws and wondering if this will hinder him in his work tomorrow. It would be just his luck, he supposed...He'd only been trying to make the work go a bit faster, finish a little quicker so they could be out of the pits a little earlier...Marco drops his hand, flopping back against the wall where he sat on the floor. Some of the older teams did always say the young drake could be near-as-nomatter brainless sometimes.

Marco liked to imagine it was a compliment - having a brain was what got you cocky, they'd say hypocritically. What got you killed. 

"Here." Marco looked up as Peter scooted up to him, lanky arm holding a little leather flask. His clutch-brother looked a lot like him, if slightly shorter, and liked to keep his hair cropped close to his scalp rather than the mop-like mat that sat atop Marco's own head. Marco tiredly shook his head at the offering. 

"No. That's what's left of your ration for the day, Pete, I'm fine." 

"You need it more than I do Marco." Pete frowns as his lips purse in the pout Marco would recognize before anything else about his brother, still offering him the flask. "Here." Without waiting for acceptance or not on behalf of the other, Peter shoves it into Marco's hands. Marco hesitated for a few seconds, but now that it was in his hands, and Pete would whine at him for the rest of the evening if Marco didn't just take it, he upturned the flask and guzzling it down with a few mere gulps, trying not to let his brother see how his split lip pained him.

His whole body was killing him really, but what else was new. The foreman shocking him and _then_ beating him for attempting to fly during work had been a bit of a change, but the end result was the same, he supposed. Submission, crying while curled up at the feet of the demon while the rest of his team watched, so they'd learn a lesson too. 

The freckled dragon would not be flying again, so...lesson learned. 

"Y'know the family is gonna be looking for new slaves soon...I hear a lot of the ones they already had, died," Pete mentions, almost offhandedly. Marco turned to look at his clutch-brother sharply at the words. When Peter tilts his head towards his mother, their tiny, hatchling sister Maggie cradled in her lap, Marco growls, low, "Don't even say it," and thrusts the waterskin back into the other's hands. "They wouldn't."

Peter's eyes harden, turning to look fully at his brother. "You know they would. A grown adult dragon is better than any of us." Peter frowns. "I'm not quite an adult yet and neither are you. And they could care less about whether Maggie makes it or not. You know I'm right. She doesn't even have a human form yet..."

"That's all the more reason to take Maggie over mom," Marco growls out. "They can raise her...shape her to how they want."

Peter doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. Only nods slightly and settles back against the stone wall of their small living space next to Marco, watching the activity in the room. There are three other families with them, all with hatchlings and nestlings of varying ages. It's cramped and dark and slipping away for a spot of breathing room is nigh impossible when watchmen roam the alleyways just looking for someone to help make their night 'interesting'. Coming home after the long day in the quarry was like coming back to a prison, with the recent slave curfew in place. Marco presses his hand to his face again. More than once had someone gotten a mad look in their eye from the mere thought of being stuck in the space for another seemingly endless night, and run out yelling, screaming - laughing deliriously sometimes. They never came back.

One of the hovels' tenants slinks by, and Marco and Peter press themselves against the wall so he doesn't run into them, won't notice them. The male dragon is muttering to himself, and the boys hear a bit of it, "Fucking raids...wish they'd just leave well enough alone, learn their damned place..." There's a bottle of something in his claws as well, and both Marco and Peter cough, discreetly, as he passes them, the smell of the dark liquid strong and noxious. Whatever the dragon had found to numb his pain, it would probably kill him faster than their labor.

As he passes them, wandering off into another room to collapse, Peter whispers to Marco, on the subject of the adult's words, "Wonder if that'll get anywhere. From what I hear, those that got away from their masters were brutal - killed the whole household before they ran off with those they freed."

Marco swallows thickly and nods. "Y-yeah." He'd heard the rumors and stories too, some of them simply being something to jaw about during rest times and quickly discarded as idle talk while others...others made even the oldest, gruffest quarry slaves go silent for a few moments. "I don't know why they think they can escape. The rebels are fighting a hopeless battle. The souls these demons feed off of only make them stronger. I...don't want to see that happen...innocent lives stolen for power." 

"That's just what demons do, though," Peter replies, pulling his knees up and leaning back against the wall behind he and Marco. Then, quieter, whispering the words into the noisy room even if they're clearly only meant for his brother, "I think someday we'll be able to be free. Haven't _you_ ever wondered what it's like in the other lands?" 

Marco pause, blinking at his brother, baffled. "I - I...yes..." he manages to eek out, the words slipping out with the surprise at how bold the other is fro simply harboring those thoughts. "But look where we are Peter.....were never going to be more than workers or slaves and servants to them..." The words sour on Marco's tongue as soon as they leave his mouth, Peter's face, lined with an intense look Marco hasn't seen the likes of much these days, falling.

"Well yeah, but -"

Marco doesn't know what comes over him when Peter starts up again, trying to pick up the pieces of his broken little dream; whatever it is though, comes from some deep, dark well within the freckled drake, before he can stop himself.

Marco shoves his shoulder, maybe a little too harshly, noticing the gasp and grimace from hitting harness bruises worn into their muscles from three years in the quarry, but Marco doesn't pay it mind - if anything it will help set the message. "But nothing, idiot. Thinking like that makes you a fucking target, and if you want _your_ soul to get eaten and body tossed in a hole to rot somewhere for _speaking_ like that, I won't cry many tears for you."

Marco's sure something like this has been bubbling under the surface for a while now, tension rising as each night grew a little more unbearable then the last with the curfew. Too many shut into the too-small building for - Peter said once it wasn't the confinement, so much as it was the fact they _couldn't leave_. Maybe it's the darkness, the crying hatchlings in the other room who will not quiet for all their mother's cooing, the ramblings of the drunken drake, the _constant scent of fear and desperation, building -_ whatever it is...Peter's soft, hurt look morphs into one of pain, and even anger. His brother bares his teeth at Marco and hisses harshly, mantling his wings. Marco, already too deep, follows suit.

They might have had an actual fight, with fists and claws and maybe even flames spat at one another, it had happened before - until something much bigger then the two adolescents snarls from nearby, deep and deadly. The boys' bodies still, utterly at the sound, hands loosening on tunics and wings folding involuntarily.

 _"That is enough."_ Their mother hisses at them and glares. "Do the two of you /want/ to be taken away and used as soul fodder? I'm sure no demon out there cares where they get the souls from, as long as they're consumable. And Marco...I never want to hear you speak like that again, do I make myself clear?" The drake in question stiffens as he is singled out...and he looks away, avoiding his mother's blazing amber gaze. Peter has scooted a few inches away, also examining the earth floor as if it's the mot interesting thing in the world. _"Marco!"_

"Yes ma'am..." Marco mumbles out, nodding his head. He hears her grumble to herself, and settle back in the small nest. Marco glances up, hoping their barked words and growling hasn't woken his small sister. Thankfully, the little dame sleeps on, curled without a care in the world in her mother's lap. So young, she's still without a human form...

A wave of sleepiness and fatigue sweeps over Marco, and suddenly he feels he can barely keep his head up. He supposes nothing interesting will come of keeping himself awake - supper was long ago, and there's not much to do with one's self cooped up so. Sleep does sound like a boon, after the long day...

Marco would normally snag himself a blanket from their family's nest, but his mother hasn't quite recovered from Maggie's laying and hatching yet, and Marco doesn't want to deprive his little sister of anything...not yet. So he lies down where he is, arm thrown behind his head and curling his wings about himself. It's more uncomfortable then normal...he and Pete usually curled up together, if for nothing but comfort, with Simon somewhere nearby humming a tune -

Marco squeezes his eyes closed tighter, willing away the images. He just wants to sleep, he's so worn thin...

Just...sleep.


	2. Make Me Brave, Make Me Foolish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When our dreams turn to nightmares and nightmares live, what more can you do but beg?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So this chapter took a bit of a time to get sorted and are still on the fence about it, but hope it still satisfies! Marco's gonna have a bad time~

There was no good way to wake up as a slave. Sleep offered a deeper reprieve from reality then daydreaming or a rest break or meal...but coming _back_ to reality could go a number of ways, none of them pleasant, from waking on your own and having to reacquaint yourself with the grimy space around you and the idea of another day of hard labor, to being ripped violently from rest by whatever it was that saw fit to make a disturbance.

For Marco, it seemed today would be the latter. 

"Everyone up!" 

The door banged on the wall of the home with a, in the prior silence of the morn, deafening bang. Marco and Peter were closest to the door, as well as a female from another family a year younger then they two. 

The three of them are the first to be grabbed up roughly by their tunics and hauled outside. Marco stumbles over his own feet. His heart is in his throat as he was pulled out and tossed aside, the demon ducking back into the house to pull out others. He and Peter hastily stoop to help up the girl. There is more shouting from inside the house - one of a multitude scattered carelessly within the walls of the slave district, the sounds of more demonic guards rousing houses echoing off the narrow streets and pathways. 

Peter and Marco rush forward when their parents and siblings are shoved out. Their mother's eyes are wide and her pupils slitted with terror, hiding Maggie under her wings wrapped around herself, Marco's father hovering near. With a few shoves, and some unneeded blade-brandishing, the second guard pushes for them to move, joining the groups and families of others in the crowd, spilling out.

Though he tries to keep them in his sights, Marco loses his family to the crowd. Well...he's sure that after whatever happens, he'll run into them again, or just meet them back home. Or something.

Marco worried his lip as he was jostled along. There was a vague little idea forming in his head as to what this was all about....but Peter had been wrong before. Sometimes. This...this might be public hanging...or the demons instating some new law. Marco bit his lip harder, looking over his shoulder for some sign of his family. Mother, father, even Pete would be appreciated at this point. 

The march to the slave district main square is short, made so by the harrowing guardsmen lining the streets and shoving along those who weren't fast enough. Marco tried to keep to the middle of the group, head down and wings tucked in. The black eye must be terribly noticeable by now, bruised and aching....

Soon, all are gathered together in the wide space, and Marco can't help but feel even worse then his did the night previous with the press of bodies around him. He'd managed, despite his best efforts, to be pushed near to the front, where he gets a very clear, and very hair-raising view of the demonic garrison. They occupy two forms, just as dragons do - a humanoid one, and a far, far more terrifying, monstrous side, a gross amalgamation of flesh and magic. Marco thinks he ought to be more used to the sight by now, but most of the foremen and guards around their home didn't bother with their more powerful form when it wasn't needed to subdue a dragon. 

Many of the younger dragons recoil in fear....the head of the garrison has stepped forward. His face is one Marco knows, though he's never had the misfortune of being treated to such a close look. His demonic form is snake-like, eeling around the space with an unsettling grace that makes Marco shudder to watch for long. Many of his peers clutch at themselves or each other when he slides too close; while his expression cannot be seen under the unnatural shadows of his helm, dragon horns studding the crest, Marco thinks the disquiet gives him pleasure. 

Even the adult dragons are uncomfortable. He looks over each slave towards the front over. There's barely any sound at all as he paces, scanning each dragon with his eyes that glow from the darkness, a sulfuric green-yellow. No-one speaks. Marco himself feels afraid to breathe. 

"Selected."

It's is the only word to slither out of the demon's hidden mouth, and it makes a few younger dragons start wailing, horribly, the kind like only staring death in the face and knowing he was here for _you_ would force from your throat. Marco feels his throat constrict around his own voice at the word, and he's only saved from joining in by the dig of claws into his palm. 

Daring to look around, Marco sees - he sees little lights flare to life above heads...those 'selected', like flames on a wick, and the poor souls the candle set to melt into nothing. 

Demon guards from the sidelines advance, and the crowd shoves to get away from those chosen. They can do nothing fro them now, they are lost. As the dragons are grabbed, hauled aside, the little lights go out, but not a moment before - there would be no evading them, no getting away...

"No!! Stop, please don't hurt her!" 

It was always so warm here, the sky overcast and humid and red - Marco's hear that there _were_ places in Hell where it wasn't so, cold places, dark places...no light, no heat. 

He was fairly certain just then, that his heart had become one of them. 

The dragon jerked around, eyes searching, frantic, no, no he had to have heard wrong, must have - "M-mum!" Marco's voice grates against his throat, the sudden desperation as he sees across the way, that damnable little light...and he hears a new scream join the chorus, small and whining. A hatchling's cry. 

One of the demons had come for the selected, Marco's mother...but they /only/ wanted the selected. Maggie, so small and fragile, she didn't matter a bit. They'd ripped her from his mother's arms, dangling the girl by her little tail and - and dropping her like you'd toss aside a rat by the tail to keep it's filth away from your person. That's what dragon whelps were to demons, filth...

The sound Maggie made in response to the sudden pain of being dropped and the fear of mother nowhere near was horrid, louder then any of the other cries, twice as visceral. Marco shoves people to get to her, his family. He knows that eyes you'd be a fool to draw the attention of are watching him. They _see_. 

Marco couldn't care. In fact, it would probably be better that way. Watch _him_ , just please, _leave her alone_. 

Marco is blind to himself and others as he rams into the guard pulling at his mother, flinging the creature aside with a hiss. He only knows that - that he cannot take her. Maggie would die, Marco doesn't know if he could live with knowing his mother was /gone/. Marco sees the guard jump up, jagged teeth bared and duel forms glimpsed trough the veil of magic, gauntlet fingering it's dagger as it advances on the drake. He would be dead - will be if, not for the words that choose to spill out of his mouth as he holds out his hands, pleading in front of his mother for her life, and trying to ignore Maggie's pitiful whimpers as she curls on the ground. 

"No! Please, s-she needs to be here....to make sure her young grow strong enough t-to work....right? This nestling needs her mothers milk or she...she will never grow strong enough to work..." Marco's mouth feels like cotton and dust, eyes stinging as he guard does not stop it's advance, and as it finally unsheathes it's dagger, Marco's mother cries out and holds her face in her hands. Marco feels wetness streaking down his own face - tears of fear, stress. He is going to die. He will die and Maggie will die and his mother will be taken away forever - 

_"Selected."_

Marco cannot breathe, as the little flame above his mother's head flickers out

and lights above his own.

There's an odd ringing in his ears, and Marco wonders for a moment how the world could be so silent when he could till hear the screaming and crying those around him - oh. His mother's head is shaking, her hands reaching out as Marco hands something to her - _why is the world so slow?_ \- Maggie. His little sister was wiggling in his arms, crying at him and his mother, not understanding. Did...did Marco himself understand? He knew something had happened...he;d made it happen but reality seemed skewed, like it wasn't real at all it was all taking place inside Marco's head. A dream. Or a nightmare, cleverly crafted and skillfully executed.

Waking up hurt.

There was to be no more distractions, and no more dawdling. The guard Marco had shoved aside was moving again, knife still drawn and Marco's body felt like liquid metal, to slow as the demon reached out with one clawed hand and took hold of his wrist, bringing it together with the other. Magic buzzed between them, and everything came in at once -sound, feeling, breath, the shock reverberating, leaving Marco dizzy. He pulled at the cuffs but the black, ink-like power only hissed malevolently, and _burned_. Marco bit his lip, tasting copper. Not now...that couldn't be the last thing they had to see of him...

The chosen unfortunates were being hauled forward, some away from clinging children or spouses, from their parents and brothers and sisters. Others stalked forward with faces carved of the same stone they'd spent their lives carving for the demons. Marco...he didn't know what he looked like, arms curled up into his chest like a prayer, eyes wide. Though the guard urged him forward, Marco looked back with a gasp. "N-no, please...you - you have to let me say goodbye! I have to say goodbye!"

The little drake's pleas fell on deaf ears, the knife only jabbing into his back harder as he was herded into the open space where the others were being chained together under the searing eyes of the senior guardsman. That didn't stop him from looking back over his shoulder, seeing his family among the countless others. His mother was weeping openly, clutching at his ashen-faced father holding little Maggie. She'd never know him..

Peter. Marco didn't know how he'd found their family in the mess, or fought his way to them - maybe he'd been foolishly attempting what Marco's moment of desperation had lead him to do, and try to take his brother's place. He looked so confused as if he didn't understand...

They hadn't even gotten to apologize to each other.

Demons ate souls - all kinds of demons and all kinds of souls from anything that possessed it. Sometimes for no good reason other then...just because. Marco had seen it done once, only once. Even the thought of watching a hand reaching in, past blood and bone and spirit to grasp with cruel claws at that little bit of light in the darkness, and consume it fully...it made the dragon sick in a way he could never put to to words, to see the light itself drain from the victim's eyes and fall to the ground to be tossed aside like a bit of old garbage...

Marco thinks, that perhaps, such a thing would have spared him from this agony.


	3. My Heart on a Silver Platter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wandering on down forgotten roads, the bones of my forebears light lanterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little longer to get done then anticipated, but the story shall go on! Marco finds himself in yet another poor situation, and possibly out of his depth - yet again. (can this kid catch a break? Ever?)

The Kirschtien Household looms out of the gloom, a monolith in the dark lit by red torches and firebaskets, luminous eyes of demons blinking out of the darkness down at the slave chain-line. Marco tries his best to not look up. He does not succeed, eyes flitting up without his consent, and then unable to tear them away. THe walls and spires reaching up into the reddening sky and the shadows beyond, shining like black glass. It doesn't look real, like some child's interpretation of what a castle should look like and then brought to life in unsettling clarity.

It only fuels thoughts of what in the world the lords could possibly need with a bunch of randomly selected quarry slaves. THe choices are as endless as they make Marco sick to think about for any length. Will his soul be fed to the demons that inhabit the halls of this place? What will become of them, marching along to what may be their deaths? Feeding the Lord's son and daughter? Playthings for the family to set their hounds against and watch them torn apart as sport during a formal dinner? Live specimens for the insane alchemist imp the Kirschtiens supposedly employ?

Marco stomach turns violently, and he finds he can only concentrate on continuing to place one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythms. Allowing himself to think of anything else would only cause him to collapse in a mess of panic and insanity, and the guard driving them forward looks like he's just waiting for one of them to stumble and give him something to lash out at. Marco takes the highroad for the lot of them and keeps his head down, eyes on his pounding feet.

The dirt and dust under him soon starts to transition to something new - cobblestones, at first worn and tread into the ground from use and time, then more precisely placed, delicately carved and set into proper stone and mortar. Marco would know. It's his own kin's handcraft, after all.

The gateway to the main house and keep is as huge and black as the rest of it, a gaping mouth into the unknown belly of the beast where surely many dragons (and even other demons) have passed through, never to return from again. And now it is Marco and the other unfortunates' turn. The guard keeps them moving, the same doubletime all the while right through the arch and Marco chances a glance up, spying burning eyes in the shadows beyond the murderholes. He gasps as looks away again, noting how at least the guard is more preoccupied with keeping them going then them looking around. As the darkness of the tunnel-like gate clears and the light from the square courtyard comes into proper view, there is no stopping the newest crop of selected slaves from blinking and looking about in wonder.

Marco knows the carvings and statues of the senior artisan dragons his father works with sometimes, sees their brainstorming and notes on pieces of parchment spread out on the small workbenches around the quarry. THey are, if one ignored the fact they were being made for the sheer decadence of their demon masters, quite pretty. Or terrifying, gaping stone mouthes filled with bristling teeth and too many limbs. Marco thinks the area around him gives him the same feeling as looking into the eyes of those statues. The walls up close are even taller, red hellfire burns in huge oil lamps hanging from the pillars stretching tall about the wide open space, or in thin troughs set into the ground lining pathways around inky fountains.There were plants and small, immaculate gardens planted here and there, mossy ground covering and lichens growing in an array of muted, glowing colors.

Demons are milling about, blinking up from their activities of sparring and reading and walking to observe with unwavering glowing eyes the line of dragons being trotted by. Marco shies away momentarily, breaking his concentration on keeping his pace, bumping into the female dragon ahead of him, she turning to hiss at him in surprise. "Sorry.." He whispers, and he hopes amongst the commotion of the chains and their feet against smooth flagstones the guard doesn't notice or care.

He must not, as amazingly, he just keeps shouting them forward, shoving at those who are too slow and leading them around the side of the court, to another doorway, this one not so nearly as grand as the main gate, but still frightening as it twisted along into narrow hallways, dark and poorly lit.

The sound of the dragons' claws clicking and scraping along he floor seemed to echo and, and soon became mixed with a number of other sounds. People shouting from other rooms, hammers falling on metal, smells of food cooking...all of it rushed past in a blur, and Marco felt like he couldn't breath in the cramped hall. There seemed to be no end to it, watching as other doorways sped past them as they moved, an anthill of masonry and shadows. It seemed they could run forever, despite what the ash in his chest and pain in his legs said.

Marco wasn't sure where it came from all of a sudden - perhaps from nowhere at all, how light in this place acted wasn't natural, and only seems to show what it wanted to, never what it needed - but light folded the slave's eyes, golden-red and glittering off of a huge, polished stone floor. Marco's pupils contracted, forcing him to squint painfully as he was subjected to this abrupt shift. He can't even reach up to rub his eyes, wrists weighed down by the manacles and desperately not wanting to trip anyone up at this point by tugging on the line.

He doesn't have time to dwell on his stinging eyes though. The slaves are marched into the wide, luminous room, and Marco looks up.

And he is pinned down by a pair of slitted, golden eyes, sending a spear of terror right into his wildly beating heart.

Marco cannot look away. To the side, he thinks he hears one of the other slaves whimper in dread, "We are dead...we are dead men.." only to be slapped across the face by another, hissed at to shut up and be still, but all that passes by Marco like a dream, an insect buzzing about his head and mattering just as much.

The demon sits aside from the maid throne dais - for this is, surely, the grand hall, the inner sanctum of the castle with ceiling so high it disappears into darkness, the gallery all around with demons viewing the procession from the floors above. The high step is occupied by two great thrones, both of which are occupied. The king and queen, draped in the night in which they control, crowns of gold and fire glinting in and out of the lint of the room. They watch over the guard as he snaps at the slaves to line up, quicklike, so they can get this over with. Stand straight - "How dare you look up, worm!" The demon snarls, and Marco has time only enough to flinch as a gauntlet is brought down over his head.

Thankfully, it;s only heavy leather, and while Marco's head spins with the force of the blow, he thanks whatever powers that be that there will be no lasting damage.

And...and the spell, whatever magic that had drawn his eyes to that of the young demon sitting beside his parents on a smaller, equally grand throne to his father's left...was broken. Marco contents himself with blinking the tears away from his eyes and gritting his teeth against the flood of sickness born of fear that comes in torrents.

The demon guard is soon satisfied that he's gotten them where he, or rather his master wants them place, beaten and run into submission. He backs away and Marco (and the others) jolt as yet another door opens and the Captain of the garrison slides out of wherever he was hiding. They are once more treated to his full demonic appearance...and then it changes, under the many eyes of the demon king himself. (Even Marco, as drawn as his gaze was by the younger prince, cannot yet bear to force himself to look directly into the face of his King.) The captain shrinks, form shifting into something smaller - though still imposing in his armor that changed with him, removing his helm and stepping forward. Taking to knee in front of the king, he speaks lowly, but in the ringing silence of the grand space, he needs not speak much louder. All can hear him.

"My Lord...as requested...the Selection, all young and fit, ready to serve you and yours, body and mind." The demon remains crouched, and Marco shudders as the darkness shrouding the great lord moves, like ink seeping into water and poisoning it black. Lord Kirschtein moves only his hand, waving away the lesser demon as Marco /feels/ those eyes roll over his form. The captain lowers his head even more, and slowly stands and moves to the side. It's...an odd thing to see, Marco might think later, when the terror of his being in the presence of the king is not so fresh, how someone he used to think so powerful...was nothing, in comparison to the power the lord of the house exhumes.

And then he speaks. Like the final breath of the dead walking, rattling up from between a multitude of vicious teeth like rattle bones, the king gestures to the line of dragons. _"My children....I have brought you as requested. You may each claim one. Choose wisely."_

Marco's claws dig into his palms, cutting the flesh there and slicking his hands and fingers with blood as he resists the urge to scream. The words slice at him, writhing over his skin like rock snakes in a pit. The meaning of the words don;t even leave their impression a they should upon him until something else aside from the two rulers is moving. Ah....the...the princess. She stands first, stepping with an inhuman grace down the steps, robes just as black and glinting as her parents'. She too has their golden eyes; they are equally cruel and emotionless, though perhaps colder, burning like ice rather than molten metal. Marco struggles for a moment to recall her name - it wash;t like talk of the monarchy occupied most dragon's idle chatter in the quarry or at home, as much as they all despised and feared them. Hilda? No, no...Hitch! Yes...her name was Hitch. Sharp and deadly, a stiletto knife in the back and a silver smirk all the while.

She moves much as the guard who brought them here did, up and down the line. Her form...Marco had a hard time looking at it. Not nearly as terrifying as some of the others, not that Marco would ever in his wildest daydreams think of mentioning that aloud to anyone, but he could stand to watch it. Flickering in and out of humanoid and demon, a wavering flame of a candle left on the windowsill.

"They're not very impressive," the she-demon scoffs, coming the end of her pacing. The drake isn't sure how to feel about the statement. What was she expecting, dragons like untouched art looking like pedigree pets? She's standing a little ways away from Marco - good. The farther the better...Still, Marco is sure he doesn't move, keeps himself still and hunched as the rest of them, lest he draw her withering gaze. They were here so the Prince and Princess could choose handservants, right? Marco chanced a glance at a few of the others - those older then him, in better health, taller, bigger, just...more. There were better candidates for the royals' needs, he knew it.

Marco tries to focus on making himself small, and counting the number of threads in the needlework his mother had sewn into the sleeves of his tunic as Hitch moves again, tapping ever slower down the line with an unsettling feline grace, still managing to look utterly disinterested in what she sees even as her eyes pick apart every slave down to the bone. Something gleams in his eyes, and without thinking, Marco looks up, some hind-brain reaction in his stupid draconic mind at the sight of something that literally catches his eye. It's a bit of light, reflecting off the Prince's crownlet. He's shifted, tawny eyes narrowed as he stares down at the scene.

The boy watching him, in silence, unblinking.

Through eyes like that, holding fathoms unknown and uncharted, Marco thinks one would never guess what the demon child is thinking. Marco isn't sure he wants to know. Ever.

"He'll do."

Marco blinks, head jerking around as the dragons tot he left and right of him shudder...in relief. He's...Hitch is standing right in front of him, sweeping into his space until she in her twisting form is all he can see. Those staring eyes blocked. She's taller than Marco, if only by a few inches, but still she seems to loom as he tries to draw back.

"He's better looking then any of the other rubbish you've dragged in at least." Marco chokes back a yell and a muffled yelp of pain as the Princess's hand darts forward to grip his jaw, needle claws digging cruelly into his skin as she forces his head one way, and then the other, scrutinizing. Her lips part into a dangerous smile. "With some adjustments, naturally."

"No."

Marco was sure he'd been about to faint, heart sounding in his ears and legs cold and numb with fear and the exhaustion it brought on. Hitch's sharp, in-some-sense pretty smile morphed suddenly into something gruesome at the simple word, spoken clear in the silent room. Marco bit his cheek as she ripped her claws from his face and thrust him back as she rounded on her brother. The Prince had stood stom his throne, black, feathery robes cloaking his form as regal as any of the dark statues. He was no longer looking at Marco...but the dragon felt no happiness from this fact, rather, as the siblings now turned to battle wills...he felt worse then ever, now a prize in their awful little spat.

"He is mine."


End file.
